The Last Hero

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Lord Vetinari.

‘I do not wish to volunteer, sir.’

‘No one was asking you to.’

Rincewind wagged a weary finger. ‘Oh, but they will, sir, they will. Someone will say: hey, that Rincewind fella, he's the adventurous sort, he knows the Horde, Cohen seems to like him, he knows all there is to know about cruel and unusual geography, he'd be just the job for something like this.’ He sighed. ‘And then I'll run away, and probably hide in a crate somewhere that'll be loaded on to the flying machine in any case.’

‘Will you?’

‘Probably, sir. Or there'll be a whole string of accidents that end up causing the same thing. Trust me, sir. I know how my life works. So I thought I'd better cut through the whole tedious business and come along and tell you I don't wish to volunteer.’

‘I think you've left out a logical step somewhere,’ said the Patrician.

‘No, sir. It's very simple. I'm volunteering. I just don't wish to. But, after all, when did that ever have anything to do with anything?’

‘He's got a point, you know,’ said Ridcully. ‘He seems to come back from all sorts of—’

‘You see?’ Rincewind gave Lord Vetinari a jaded smile. ‘I've been living my life for a long time. I know how it works.’

There were always robbers near the Hub. There were pickings to be had among the lost valleys and forbidden temples, and also among the less prepared adventurers. Too many people, when listing all the perils to be found in the search for lost treasure or ancient wisdom, had forgotten to put at the top of the list ‘the man who arrived just before you’.

One such party was patrolling its favourite area when it espied, first, a well-equipped warhorse tethered to a frost-shrivelled tree. Then it saw a fire, burning in a small hollow out of the wind, with a small pot bubbling beside it. Finally it saw the woman. She was attractive or, at least, had been conventionally so perhaps thirty years ago. Now she looked like the teacher you wished you'd had in your first year at school, the one with the understanding approach to life's little accidents, such as a shoe full of wee.

She had a blanket around her to keep out the cold. She was knitting. Stuck in the snow beside her was the largest sword the robbers had ever seen.

Intelligent robbers would have started to count up the incongruities here.

These, however, were the other kind, the kind for whom evolution was invented.

The woman glanced up, nodded at them, and went on with her knitting.

‘Well now, what have we here?’ said the leader. ‘Are you—’

‘Hold this, will you?’ said the old woman, standing up. ‘Over your thumbs, young man. It won't take a moment for me to wind a fresh ball. I was hoping someone would drop by.’

She held out a skein of wool.

The robber took it uncertainly, aware of the grins on the faces of his men. But he opened his arms with what he hoped was a suitably evil little-does-she-suspect look on his face.

‘That's right,’ said the old woman, standing back. She kicked him viciously in the groin in an incredibly efficient if unladylike way, reached down as he toppled, caught up the cauldron, flung it accurately at the face of the first henchman, and picked up her knitting before he fell.

The two surviving robbers hadn't had time to move, but then one unfroze and leapt for the sword. He staggered back under its weight, but the blade was long and reassuring.

‘Aha!’ he said, and grunted as he raised the sword. ‘How the hell did you carry this, old woman?’

‘It's not my sword,’ she said. ‘It belonged to the man over there.’

The man risked a look sideways. A pair of feet in armoured sandals were just visible behind a rock. They were very big feet.

But I've got a weapon, he thought. And then he thought: sodidhe.

The old woman sighed and drew two knitting needles from the ball of wool. The light glinted on them, and the blanket slid away from her shoulders and fell on to the snow.

‘Well, gentlemen?’ she said.

Cohen pulled the gag off the minstrel's mouth. The man stared at him in terror.

‘What's your name, son?’ said Cohen.

‘You kidnapped me! I was walking along the street and—’

‘How much?’ said Cohen.

‘What?’

‘How much to write me a saga?’

‘You stink!’

‘Yeah, it's the walrus,’ said Cohen evenly. ‘It's a bit like garlic in that respect. Anyway… a saga, that's what I want. And what you want is a big bag of rubies, not unadjacent in size to the rubies what I have here.’

He upended a leather bag into the palm of his hand. The stones were so big the snow glowed red. The musician stared at them.

‘You got – what's that word, Truckle?’ said Cohen.

‘Art,’ said Truckle.

‘You got art, and we got rubies. We give you rubies, you give us art,’ said Cohen. ‘End of problem, right?’

‘Problem?’ The rubies were hypnotic.

‘Well, mainly the problem you'll have if you tell me you can't write me a saga,’ said Cohen, still in a pleasant tone of voice.

‘But… look, I'm sorry, but… sagas are just primitive poems, aren't they?’ The wind, never ceasing here near the Hub, had several seconds in which to produce its more forlorn yet threatening whistle.

‘It'll be a long walk to civilisation, all by yourself,’ said Truckle, at length.

‘Without yer feet,’ said Boy Willie.

‘Please!’

‘Nah, nah, lads, we don't want to do that to the boy,’ said Cohen. ‘He's a bright lad, got a great future ahead of him…’ He took a pull of his home-rolled cigarette and added, ‘up until now. Nah, I can see he's thinking about it. A heroic saga, lad. It'll be the most famousest one ever.’

‘What about?’

‘Us.’

‘You? But you're all ol—’

The minstrel stopped. Even after a life that had hitherto held no danger greater than a hurled meat bone at a banquet, he could recognise sudden death when he saw it. And he saw it now. Age hadn't weakened here – well, except in one or two places. Mostly, it had hardened.

‘I wouldn't know how to compose a saga,’ he said feebly.

‘We'll help,’ said Truckle.

‘We know lots,’ said Boy Willie.

‘Been in most of 'em,’ said Cohen.

The minstrel's thoughts ran like this: These men are rubies insane. They are rubies sure to kill me. Rubies. They've dragged me rubies all the rubiesrubies.

They want to give me a big bag ofrubies rubies…

‘I suppose I could extend my repertoire,’ he mumbled. A look at their faces made him readjust his vocabulary. ‘All right, I'll do it,’ he said. A tiny bit of honesty, though, survived even the glow of the jewels. ‘I'm not the world's greatest minstrel, you know.’

‘You will be after you write this saga,’ said Cohen, untying his ropes.